


Ocean Breathes Salty

by Puke_Silver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, F/M, Incest, Jonerys, Oral Sex, Pregnancy, Sexual Content, Winterfell, Woman on Top, boatsex 2.0, one shots, season 7 ep 7 spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-12-21 12:39:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11944395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puke_Silver/pseuds/Puke_Silver
Summary: A series of one-shots.The following morning (post "boatsex")//In Winterfell, Jon struggles alone with the revelation of his identity. Daenerys seeks his company//A night of reprieve amidst the Battle for the Living.





	1. Ocean Breathes Salty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following morning (post "boatsex").

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mention of scars

Daenerys wakes to the gentle rocking of the boat, the smooth glide of silk sheets, and to the firm press of a body at her side.

She eases herself quietly from his hold, propping her weight to an elbow and taking a moment to observe the man beside her— _this King in the North_.

He lies on his back—his skin is pale and flushed from sleep; the plump of his lips parted ever so slightly, permitting the push and pull of soft breaths as his chest rises and falls in slumbered tandem.

In the moment, she realizes idly that his hair must have come untied some time through the night—some time amidst the _many things_ that passed between them—his black curls now fanned against the pillow, their color a stark contrast to the silver of the surrounding silk.

There’s an ease to his face now, but it breaks suddenly on the swell of a deep inhale—dark lashes fluttering with his waking.

Jon opens his eyes then, and meets hers—the wet pitch of his gaze as naked as the rest of him as he flashes a small smile, its pull born of reflexive affection. Though it’s not but a moment before his brow twinges, his face hardening into the reticent mask he so often wore. And Daenerys realizes then, that if she doesn’t reach out, as if to grab the feelings he’s so readily tucking away, she might lose him to the silent clutch of guarded habit.

So she does, wordlessly lacing her fingers with his and bringing her other hand to cup his face, rubbing the flat of her thumb through the coarse hairs of his beard as he stares on in waiting, a subtle softness returning once more to his features.

Daenerys herself relaxes too.

She can feel him, hard from sleep against her hip, and she moves to trail her eyes between his legs. But the path of her stare catches instead on the scars, which mottle his belly, their marks sharp and purpled against the dips of lean, white muscle.

_He took a knife in the heart for his people._

She will ask, she decides, when the next sun sets—what these scars have meant for him—what loss and duty have truly meant for him. But as it is now, the sunlight shines through the stained glass windows, dappling their sheets with diffused squares of reds and blues, and she understands this moment is not the right one.

So instead she drops her hand, feathering tentative fingers along the hooking scar of his chest, as if touching to understand his pain—the mark rough and hot beneath the slow arcs of her strokes.

Jon lies still all the while; his breath trapped in his throat as he allows the intimacy of such surveyance.

She would never let a man stand in her way again, Daenerys had once vowed. And yet here Jon Snow lies before her—vulnerable, kind, and trusting— _deserving_. A man very much her equal.

And as if privy to her thoughts, Jon raises his arm then, taking her shoulder in the cradle of a rough palm and squeezing before he starts to rub the blunt of his thumb in slow, caressing circles.

He smiles again, sadder this time, and her heart nearly breaks for it.

So Daenerys shifts now, turning her body to hover over him and pressing her lips to the scar on his chest. She then begins her path down his torso, kissing each mark as if to whisk away the pain of their memories—as if to document his sacrifice.

She pauses then, nipping lightly at the final scar, nestled between hip and navel, its angry line only half covered beneath the hem of the sheets. 

And it is but a second more before Daenerys sweeps them away, exposing Jon further. 

His cock is flushed and pink between his legs, crowned by a thatch of dark hair, and he shifts uncomfortably beneath her gaze. She seeks to make him forget such unease, but to her surprise, when Daenerys kisses at the base, Jon jolts at the touch.

In answer, she looks up to meet his eyes—their hold glossed wide and black, his throat bobbing.

“What—?“ he begins then, these first words pushed from his lips on the force of a gruff rasp. He clears his throat and swallows thickly, his stare both perplexed and eager, leaving the question unfinished.

But Daenerys understands his meaning all the same, and she stifles a smile at how unassuming this man is—how desperately he’s holding himself still.

She arches a brow. “Is it not obvious?” She asks, her expression as poised and cool as it oft is in the throne room. Though it’s not a moment before she breaks into a smile, and Jon returns it timidly. 

“I’m returning last night’s favor,” she says, waiting for a sign of his approval. 

And Jon gives it soon enough, licking his lips and nodding, the motion stiff, as if in fear that were he to move too forcefully, this moment between them might disappear.

So with that, she licks down his shaft, and he lets out a stifled grunt, but Daenerys is once more surprised to find that his body still remains rigid beneath her—his hands clenched and his thighs firm. 

_Nerves_ , she supposes, and flicks her tongue across his head in hopes he might slacken. But the motion elicits little change.

_He’s holding back._

So she licks again— _once, twice_ , and a _third_ time. But still, Jon remains tense.

And with his apparent discomfort persisting, it occurs to Daenerys then that Jon Snow is a man unused to the rawness of such focused attentions. It’s only fitting, she realizes—after all, he is a man grown beneath the weight of a bastard identity. And perhaps this is why Jon Snow never seeks to ask for much. Or perhaps this humility is simply in his nature.

Daenerys can’t say one way or another, but regardless, she finds she loves him more for this and resolves to make him forget such selflessness this morning.

So it is with renewed determination that she takes him in hand and swallows his length.

She hears his head hit the bed’s wooden board at this—his loud moan muffled by the resulting _thunk_ of the impact, and it’s then that Daenerys feels him settle. 

She would smile if she could.

But instead she continues, bobbing and licking—stroking and sucking. And before long, Jon’s thighs are trembling, his belly stuttering. She can tell he is close.

“Dany—“ he gasps suddenly, the sound low and throaty through the breathlessness of his northern burr. But before she can assuage his apprehensions, Jon reaches out, pulling her off his cock and up to meet his mouth.

He kisses her hungrily then, guiding her hips to meet his. And with no further prompting, Daenerys grabs his length once more, and sheaths herself upon it.

So settled astride, she begins to roll her hips in smooth, drawing thrusts—her hands spread across the flat of Jon’s chest as she pulls away from his mouth to meet his eyes.

They stay as such for a time, moving together, before Jon’s brow begins to crease, his chest faltering as the hand between her legs loses the guided pattern of its rhythm. 

He peaks then, grunting as he spills into her, his eyes now shut tightly, and she follows close behind, collapsing bonelessly to his chest. 

And in the next few minutes, Daenerys just listens—listens as the heaving drags of their breathing begin to slow in unision. Her mind wanders in this time—her thighs still slick from his release. And she soon finds herself wondering if Jon Snow might have been right about the witch’s words.

_Perhaps his seed would take._

The thought makes her heart swell despite the pain such hopes might bring, and she looks then to the man who lies beneath her—his skin pale and his eyes gentle.

She wants to know him— _all_ of him. She wants to ask where he’s been and how he came to be. She wants to know his fears and his sorrows—his joys and his strengths. She wants to know his _heart_. And she wants to share her own.

But for now, she asks a simple question—a confident smile playing on her lips as she says the words aloud. “How long did you stand outside my door last night?”

Jon offers up a downturned grin and pulls her closer to his chest. “Not long in the end,” he starts, letting out a steadying breath—its noise dropping to the rush of a hoarse laugh. “But since we set sail, I must have stood at your door half a dozen nights before working up the courage to knock.”

She looks at him then, holding his stare and speaking firmly. “I’m glad you did,” she says, laying a hand across his belly, “The King in the North continues to prove himself a brave man.”

He cracks another smile, its warmth flashing briefly to his eyes. “It’s Jon—“ he says, reaching out to curl a silver strand of hair behind her ear. “Just _Jon_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> f this Aegon Targ name business—Jon Snow forevvuurrr


	2. I'll Be Your Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Winterfell, Jon struggles alone with the revelation of his identity. Daenerys seeks his company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: rape mention, alcohol

Jon rises from the edge of his bed, socked feet shifting restlessly as he worries the hem of his threadbare tunic.

 _A cup of ale_ , he muses: so as to ease the bitter vex of nighttime’s solitude. He pours himself a horn and moves then to stand by the fire.

The flames crackle and call in the hearth; logs shifting as Jon does—the pale of his skin caught trimmed by the firelight as he struggles to settle his stance.

After a minute or so, Jon flicks his eyes to Ghost, who seems to share no such agitation. The wolf is growling gently in slumber, his great paws stretched towards the fire’s warmth.

Jon takes another sip of ale, the liquid burning his throat and warming his belly. His arms feel heavy, but the knot in his stomach has lessened. 

He finishes his cup and goes to pour another.

But the heavy groan of an opening door stills his hand, and he turns in answer.

Jon is unsurprised to see her, he realizes, and perhaps even further unsurprised that she hadn’t seen fit to knock. And so it is with a resigned breath that he straightens, watching as Daenerys steps wordlessly forth, the trails of her fitted drapery sliding smoothly across the stones—filling the otherwise silent chambers with the cadenced whisper of fabric.

She halts her advance several feet away from Jon—hands clasped at her front, expression cool and reserved.

For his part, Jon’s unease has returned—his hands fidgeting nervously at his side, as they oft did in such moments of quiet duress—a well-learned twinge of habit, one might say. For as a boy, Jon had many times rubbed his fingers raw under the cold veil of similar stares—wilting time and time again beneath the angry scowl of Catelyn Stark as he squirmed silently in his small boots, tolerating such treatment… _expecting_ it, even.

But this is neither here nor there, and now a man grown, Jon blinks her face from his memory, so as to meet the stare of the woman who currently stands before him.

Jon swallows and lets out a cool stream of breath before offering up a halfhearted smile. But he can only meet her eyes for the briefest of seconds, and he soon looks away, casting his gaze instead to the table beside him, his skin flushed despite the chill.

He thinks then to offer her some ale, but the thought is fleeting—one born merely of discomfort. And so his words find themselves unspent behind the roll of a bitten lip.

To Jon’s relief, Daenerys soon breaks the silence. “You’ve been busy,” she says, her tone clipped.

Jon takes a deep breath. “Aye,” he nods.

And when it becomes clear that Jon will offer no further comment, Daenerys cocks an eyebrow—the first break in her ivory mask of composure. “Am I to accept then, that your _many_ duties are reason for your recent silence?”

Jon swallows a wince at the way her voice catches near the end—its brief waver betraying the pitch of her hurt—and he looks up to find her face has cracked further, her eyes glinting urgently.

“Nothing has to change between us,” she says then, meeting his gaze—her tone as hard as it is beseeching.

She believes it, Jon can see, and that only further stokes his torment—such that in the moment, he cannot find the words to answer. And so instead he just nods, wanting nothing more than to accept her assertion with shared conviction.

But after a heavy beat of silence, Jon finally does move to speak, beginning respectively, with a declaration firmly unmarred by any doubt from his end.

“I don’t want the Throne,” he starts definitively, his voice low and insistent. “I pledged myself to you and I plan to honor my pledge.” He says, squaring his shoulders.

Another log shifts in the fire then, and Jon realizes Ghost has risen—the white wolf sitting now at the foot of the bed, red eyes watching— _seeing_. 

But Daenerys quickly recaptures Jon’s attentions.

“So you’ve said,” she answers, her tone growing more forceful as she continues. “But we both know that’s _not_ why I’m here.”

And the hold of her stare is too much for Jon then. So balking, he takes a step back. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, on the rush of an anguished breath, his voice scratching louder than he had intended as his hands gesture uselessly to the space, which divides them.

“I want you to tell me you love me—” Her voice rises to match his and she closes the gap between them in a few chaste strides. At such proximity, Daenerys begins to dart her eyes rapidly across Jon’s features, as if seeking out the man she trusts she knows—hoping to find him somewhere beneath the fraying reticence of his pained grimace. But her brow furrows when it seems her search has come to naught, and she continues then with a final, raw whisper. “—As you did on that ship."

Jon blanches at this, and drags a hand down his face before speaking. “I do love you—I _do_ ,” he repeats, as if to reassure himself as much as her. “But…” the apple in his throat bobs uncertainly—his eyes glossed wet and wanting, “is it not _wrong_?”

_You were wrong to love her. You were wrong to leave her._

Daenerys softens, and reaches out to take his hands. “The Targaryens wedded brother and sister for centuries.” She tightens her grip. “We are _not_ brother and sister.”

Jon darts his tongue across his bottom lip and nods. “I know—“ he says, “I just—“ But he finds it pains him to speak such burgeoning thoughts aloud, and with a frustrated sigh, he hurries to stifle their fruition.

But Daenerys stops him, squeezing his hands. “ _Tell me_ ,” she implores.

So Jon takes another deep breath—his chest heavy—and does his best to comply.

Hanging his head, he looks to the knot of their clasped hands and summons his words—voice drawing low as they finally take form. “I spent my whole life thinking I was a bastard—my whole life a _Snow_ wanting nothing more than to be a _Stark_ —“ he exhales roughly before continuing again, “but I’m _not_ … I _never_ would have been... I’m…” He frowns, trailing off to leave the _Targaryen_ name unspoken.

But it hangs in the air all the same.

“A name doesn’t change who you are,” she answers knowingly, her tone one of stern assurance. 

Jon’s flicks his eyes once more to hers. “Doesn’t it?” He asks, brazen from the muddled swell of his unrest. “Dany, you’ve spent your life chasing a throne based on your name.”

But he realizes his misstep almost immediately, face warming with a flush of contrition as he watches Daenerys’ features shift from a momentary look of surprise to one of settled indignation.

She pulls her hands away. “Based on my _right_ ,” she corrects tersely.

“Aye—“ he agrees, shamefaced, “ _on your right_.” And as a gesture of apology, Jon reaches out then, gently retaking her hands. “And you deserve it,” he nods, before reiterating again. “You _do_.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause between them then, but Jon is relieved all the same to find her expression eases in this time.

“Why are you in these chambers?” Daenerys asks suddenly.

Jon’s brow knits, caught off guard by the change in conversation. “What?”

“Were you not crowned King in the North?” Daenerys answers coolly, as if her meaning is obvious. “Surely a King should have the Lord’s chambers?”

Jon swallows an understanding smile. “I gave them to Sansa—“ he says then. “They were her mother’s and father’s chambers. It’s right that she should have them.”

The look Daenerys gives him then is one of daunting intensity, and Jon shifts beneath her gaze, turning to refill his cup, feeling her eyes on the back of his neck all the while. He pours her one as well, and offers it wordlessly. 

She takes it with a nod of thanks. “So you took these instead?” she asks.

Jon is in the midst of a hearty swig of ale, but when he lowers his cup, it is to reveal the tweak of a downturned grin. “They’re far grander than the chambers I had as a boy,” he says, unsure yet as to the intent of her questioning.

“Will you show me?” she asks then, and her meaning clears.

Jon’s throat tightens and he swallows before nodding—its motion so subtle, she might almost have missed it. “Aye,” he reaffirms.

“ _Tonight?_ "

Jon hesitates, shifting on his feet. But eventually, he nods once more, and returns his cup to the table, its horn only half empty. Daenerys’ cup soon joins in a similar state, and Jon takes her hand in his, leading her towards the door. 

The castle is quiet, torchlight flickering off woven tapestry and sweating stone, and Ghost pads at their heels as they weave through the hallways. 

They don’t speak as Jon guides Daenerys silently towards a back stairwell, taking the steps slowly as they descend.

When they hit the bottom, the change in temperature is noticeable. It’s colder on this floor—quieter even—and Jon can’t help but notice the way Daenerys shivers. 

He pulls her closer and carries on.

This walk is one of thoughtless habit for him, and he realizes then, to his mild disconcertment, that he has led her through the soldiers’ quarters. He spares her a nervous glance but is comforted to see she doesn’t seem disturbed.

So they continue, climbing a half-staircase and rounding a corner to find themselves face-to-face with the thick black door of Jon’s childhood chambers.

And so stealing himself with a breath, Jon grasps the knob and opens it. He guides Daenerys forth, and she enters with slow, mindful steps.

But for his part, Jon hangs back, standing in the doorframe and watching her movements—watching as she approaches the hearth, observing the blackened stains on cold stone.

The air smells stale.

Months ago, Jon had been relieved to find the room more or less unchanged from the way he had kept it as a boy—the Boltons seeming to have paid it little mind. Of course, the possessions of Jon’s youth have long since vanished—cleared away and replaced by a batch of new chests, tomes, and candles. 

But still, the room’s framework remains the same.

Ghost interrupts Jon’s thoughts then, nudging his way past Jon and trotting over to Daenerys, offering a curious sniff of her hand before settling himself quietly beneath the cover of a dusty table.

And so Jon takes a step forward, as if to join them, but he stops suddenly, his memories flooding in. He can see himself—at seven and ten, packing his meager belongings for his trip to the Wall. And then again, at three and ten, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Arya bounces eagerly into the room. And again once more—as a boy of five—red-faced and sniffling in his bed, no mother to soothe his feeble cries.

_She died for you..._

Lyanna.

_Mother…_

Jon closes his eyes slowly, to collect himself, and wonders loosely what advice his mother might give now. There’s so much to lose, Jon knows— _so much_ to come. The Wall has fallen, the Night King rides south, mounted on the frozen bones of Viserion’s corpse, and the world feels simultaneously greater and smaller than Jon had ever imagined.

And Targaryen or not, Jon questions then; would it be wrong to take comfort in the arms of the woman he loves, if these are his last nights?

_Or perhaps even if they are not?_

At the thought, Jon opens his eyes to find Daenerys still perusing. She trails her fingers lightly along the bedpost, making her way through the room in silent study, and her silver hair luminesces in the dim light. _She looks beautiful_ , he thinks.

_Would it be wrong to choose love? As my mother did?_

And as if in answer, Daenerys turns then, regarding him for the first time since stepping foot in the room.

“Was she kind to you? Lady Stark?” Daenerys asks.

“No,” Jon answers after a beat. “But she kept a roof over my head and food in my belly,” he shrugs. “She allowed me to stay.”

But Daenerys sees through his modest acceptance, and she walks towards him then, her eyes glinting sadly. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Jon shakes his head at this, thinking on all she has suffered—“ _I have been sold like a broodmare_ ,” she told him once, “ _Chained and betrayed, raped and defiled_ ”—and Jon finds himself embarrassed by her sympathy.

_I was luckier than most._

“You don’t need to be,” he says earnestly.

But Daenerys does not accept this dismissal, and she instead reaches up to cup his face. At her touch, Jon finds himself softening, leaning into the small cradle of her palm and meeting her eyes.

“You deserved better,” she says then.

To which Jon nods slowly in agreement—as if to say the same to her—his eyes focused on the bow of her lips and his stomach churning.

It’s only a moment or so after that his resolve breaks, and Jon leans down to kiss her.

He breathes her in then—her mouth wet and warm against his own—and wonders, with half a mind, how he had found the strength to withhold himself these past few days. But the press of her hips drags him away from such musings, and soft kisses soon turn to delving tongues and gentle nips, such that in but a matter of minutes, they find themselves fallen into Jon’s bed.

Their clothes discarded on the floor, Jon now holds himself over Daenerys with steadied arms, kissing her in time with the urgent roll of his hips. 

And it doesn’t take long before they are both crying out—Jon spilling inside her with a loud grunt. And breathing heavily, he eventually slips out to roll on his back, pulling Daenerys tightly to his chest.

They lie as such for a time, kissing languidly in the darkness. And so it is that Jon Snow finally falls asleep, his mind at ease and feeling, for the first time within the walls of his boyhood chambers, well and truly _cherished_.


	3. Night Channels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night of reprieve amidst the Battle for the Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: blood

As her hands tighten, Jon lets out a weary groan—its sound slipping roughly through the caps of gritted teeth. He sinks further into the basin then—water lapping gently at the metal sides as he adjusts position, eyes fluttering, his curls coiling from the steam.

Daenerys meanwhile, sits to the side, fingers meandering along the swells of Jon’s shoulders. Tracing the bruised hollows of his back and the arched notches of his spine, she kneads at tightened muscle and caresses tender skin, during which, Jon sits quiet all the while, save for the occasional grunt or sigh.

She soothes him readily, yet Daenerys is sore herself—these days have been long, the nights even longer. 

In those moonless hours, both she and Jon have lain together—grasping at bouts of sleep when they find themselves too exhausted to fuck; desperate hands and clipping tongues exchanged for the warmth of wool pillows and gentle snores.

Still, without fail, the sun would rise each morning, and the battle would continue on.

They would say their goodbyes in the tent then—Jon kissing at her swollen belly before taking her mouth within his, his eyes always gleaming with the pitch of a silent plea—a desperate request for her to stay aground, if not for her own sake, then at least for that of their growing babe’s. But in the hold of his rough hands, Daenerys would only smile sadly, offering one last press of her lips before steeling herself to leave his side.

She would emerge from their shelter then, her blonde plaits catching in the wind as she strode confidently through the camp—towards its edge to where her dragons lay in wait. 

But that is neither here nor there, and suddenly, Daenerys notices that the bathwater has gone red with blood—perhaps Jon’s, she thinks. For certainly it is not that of the enemy’s. They do not bleed.

_They burn._

With concern at the sight, she squeezes gently at Jon’s neck—grazing the soft hairs at its base, to which Jon lets out a gruff whimper. 

“Blood—? Are you hurt?” she asks then.

“No,” he answers, stiffening with a shake of his head as he pulls his knees towards his chest—their caps cresting above the clouded water. “It’s—“ he exhales slowly before continuing, his eyes closing softly. “It’s not mine.”

And whose it is, she does not ask—they have lost too many already. So instead, she moves to run her fingers through his hair, where she begins to untangle its damp strands.

Jon makes a noise of contentment as Daenerys continues, humming a song she recalls from childhood—one that smells of lemon trees.

And while the distance of such a memory might once have caused her heart to ache—images of red doors and carved faces stirring—now Daenerys finds she does not long for such. Rather, she yearns instead for more moments just like the one unfolding before her.

_He is my home now._

With the thought, she concludes her cooing and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jon’s head before returning her attentions to his hair. He stirs gently.

And just now, with Jon’s chest rising and falling from the slow breaths of his newfound slumber, Daenerys has half a mind to braid his curls as she had done for Drogo; after all, Jon Snow’s hair is lovelier by far than most maidens’.

But as she reaches out, something stops her, for Jon is not _Dothraki_. And likewise, it strikes her; he is neither wholly _Targaryen_ nor _Stark_. Rather, he is a _Snow_. A bastard boy born in a Southron tower, raised in the North, and grown into the most noble man she has ever met. 

And so with a smile, she decides to leave his curls untamed—wild and supple, and so uniquely his own.

Their child will be lucky to have a father such as Jon, she muses. And Gods willing, he will live to hold the babe in his arms.

Daenerys can picture it now, dropping her free hand to the slope of her belly.

 _A girl_ , she thinks—a girl with raven curls and violet eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so short and sappy, but I had to get it out of my system.


End file.
